


untitled

by largoindminor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mooseley, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-26 13:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6241192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largoindminor/pseuds/largoindminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not really clear how it starts in the beginning, looking back you can’t pinpoint a specific time when your feelings turned from enemies-cum-unlikely allies into something more. He was always special, that Sam, your white whale so to speak. But your unwillingness to pull the trigger every time the opportunity presented itself should have been a red flag. They called you Dean Winchester’s biggest fan- little did they know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s not really clear how it starts in the beginning, looking back you can’t pinpoint a specific time when your feelings turned from enemies-cum-unlikely allies into something more. He was always special, that Sam, your white whale so to speak. But your unwillingness to pull the trigger every time the opportunity presented itself should have been a red flag. They called you Dean Winchester’s biggest fan- little did they know.

You realize it over scotch one night in the weeks following the fall out of the battle between the darkness and the light bringer, the three of you all on the same side of the fight for once and laying low together in their boobytrap of a home. They’ve got you tethered there, essentially, runes and traps allow you just enough freedom to take a leak or make a sandwich on your own, but you can’t leave or do much else. You don’t blame them, and it’s a nice enough place with lots of good aged spirits to drown the bad ones. In your slightly drunken state you might let your eyes linger a bit too long on long hair longer legs, might let words slip that had been boarded up inside you ever since that night the two of you shared in an abandoned church what feels like a thousand years ago.

He doesn’t punch you, which is a good start, but he doesn’t say much in return, either, just nods contemplatively and retires for the evening. Sam safely out of the room, Dean _does_ punch you. And you allow it, because you know it’s not nearly as hard as he could have, and also you probably deserve it. When you sober up the next day you consider smoking out before you remember you can’t.

A few nights later he comes to you, smelling of oak-barrel courage and dusty books, and slips an arm around your waist. His big hand splayed across your lower back pulls you close and it’s a lucky thing that breathing isn’t strictly necessary for you because when he leans down to gently nose across your forehead you’re sure you’d forget how. _We do it my way or we don’t do it_ he breathes hotly over your ear and you answer yes with the knock of your knees.

So it begins. Casual touches, fond smiles, and you don’t have to hide yours now. Dean’s a little confused by at all, probably a lot reluctant, considering Sam’s history with your kind in particular. But you know he trusts his brother’s judgment a little more than in the past, know his brother’s happiness is second only to his brothers safety. The talk, the _you hurt him and I’ll kill you_ one never comes, but it doesn’t need to. You’re far from stupid, but it doesn’t take much brains at all to know that about Dean.

There’s very little talking between you and you think that’s probably for the best, your first instinct still the biting sarcasm or insults. There’s very little of anything really, other than his soft touches and kitten kisses, arm slipped across your chest at night, nose nuzzled into the scruff of your jaw. It’s hard not to take control but he senses your desire to every time, murmurs _shh_ into your neck and calms you with the tender dance of fingertips along your scalp.

No one’s ever touched you this way. _Ever._ Careful and genuine and without pretense. Like you’re _real._ Like he _sees_ you. You think if you had a heartbeat it would surely crack your ribs from the inside whenever he’s near.

Finally, _finally,_ you reach out to touch him and he doesn’t swat your hand away. You grip and pull and slide against him and whisper _please_ and when he asks _please what_ you answer _please_ _just say my name when you come._

It’s heavenly. Ironic, but true- paradise on earth every time he buries his face in you neck and grunts out the syllables of your name. Once he slips, or maybe it’s on purpose, but it’s not _Crowley_ that he presses into your skin, but your real name, the one no one uses under threat of death, but it sounds so beautiful on his lips you sob. He holds you through it, drops barely there kisses along your brow and whispers _I know_. And you figure he does, too, knows how it feels to be loved despite feeling like a monster.

One day you cut yourself. It’s an accident, completely banal considering the centuries of fighting your way up hell’s ladder, you’re cleaning a blade and not quite paying attention and it slips right through the meat of your palm. He looks at you, concerned, and moves towards you for a second before the look on his face changes to something not unlike disgust, a look you barely catch before he turns and runs from the room.

It’s Dean that strolls in, minutes later, first aid kit in his hand, mouth set in a mildly irritated grin. His words are gruff but his touch gentle and practiced as he cleans and stitches the wound with impressive efficiency. He even pats your hand lightly when he’s done, looks you in the eye and shrugs a little, says _It ain’t personal, him running out. The blood, he just… you know._

And you do know. 

Sam returns to the room a while later with a few beers and the look in his eye when he hands you yours and mumbles _sorry_ is too much even for you. You’re the monster after all, but somehow he’s the one feeling unclean.

Later that night you ask him to cure you.


	2. Chapter 2

It hurts. You knew it would, remember it from before. The sting of the needle, the burn as the foreign blood spreads slowly down your neck and chest, the itching ache of newly reanimated viscera and bone. Your arms are tied down, just in case, which is fine with you because there’s really no telling how you’d react to the ritual, and the cuffs bite a little into the flesh of your wrists. The room is too warm and cold at once but the cold sweat trickling from your brow doesn’t sting your eyes this time because he wipes it away with careful movements and sweet smelling cloth. He places a hand over yours, maintains eye contact and breathes with you through the worst of it, offers encouraging nods and weary half smiles. It hurts him, too, you think, and the thought both heals and breaks your newly beating heart at the same time.

When it’s over, you sleep. You sleep deep and long and dream of red smoke and monsters with bloody teeth, of cold burning fires and mazes full of dead ends and screams coming from a room you can never ever reach. You wake with your face buried in his chest, and his arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders are the only thing keeping the tremors at bay. Being human is terrifying in ways you never expected.

It is equally astonishing.

You thought it was good before, the best, but the first time he touches you like this your skin sings, capillaries expand and your heart pumps the purified blood to the surface, burning away the echo of every touch that’s come before. His kiss is like a oasis in the desert that’s been your life up until now, lush and wet and quenching, and it’s very difficult to do anything but fist your helpless hand in his shirt and hold on. You were human, before, you remind yourself, but even then it never felt close to this, like there’s some ferocious beast growing beneath your ribs and trying to break free, so much more than just a heart beat.

When he presses into you, his face buried in your neck, lips resting over the cluster of injection sites that you already think of as both a birthmark and a brand, tears slip from the corners of your eyes. Every thought, every word leaves you but one, _Sam Sam Sam_ , and it falls from your lips like a benediction. You’ve no sense of how long it takes for you both to come, the euphoria overwhelms all higher function, elevates your mind to a place where time doesn’t seem to pass in the usual way. You’re aware, a short time after, of the too close heat of his body pressing yours deeper into the mattress, of his shuddering breaths as his chest expands and retracts against your own. You’re near claustrophobic from it but still can’t get enough, pulling him closer still.

No one’s ever loved you before, that you know, but he’s been loved by so many, and deservedly so. You have nothing new to offer him, and the thought scratches as the back of your mind until you speak it out loud. He smiles a little, sad but fond, and smooths back your sweat damp hair, _Never had anyone change, uh, species… or whatever, for me before. That’s a pretty big deal._ His smile broadens, full of teeth and dimples and sincerity and he’s right, isn’t he? You did do that. Maybe, just maybe, you can be worthy of this some day.

The nightmares still come, almost every night. Sometimes it’s black smoke tearing you limb from limb. Sometimes it’s phantom claws that split you open and drag you back to hell. Sometimes it’s him, blade buried right in your heart and he twists it and laughs in your face. And sometimes it’s him, lifeless before you as a halo of red spreads out beneath his head, surprised look still etched on his face and a smoking pistol in your hands- those are by far the worst. He’s there when you wake up each time, warm and understanding and reassuring, big hands sooth the anxiety from your muscles and lull you back to sleep.

You never wonder what you did to deserve him, you know the answer is that you don’t.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note of the warnings, I've updated them.

All things considered, you should probably be a little bit more pissed off than you are. Your hand is pressed firm over you belly, and you haven't looked yet but you can feel the blood, warm and sticky as it spills over your fingers. Sam gets to you first, of course, kneels beside you but as close as he is, his face still blurs. He's yelling something you can't quite understand, to you or someone else you're not quite sure, but his hands are on you, gentle and comforting and you almost feel like everything's going to be ok.

Almost.

Dean appears over his shoulder a few minutes later, presumably after finishing off the last of the three demons you'd encountered, and you can read on his face what any proper human would have known instinctively- you're a goner. Dean, bless him, squeezes Sam's shoulder once and walks away to offer the two of you some semblance of privacy, and for probably the first time you're grateful instead of envious for the unusual closeness between them. At least Sam will be well taken care of when you're gone.

The pain starts to subside, a consequence of what can only be your body going into shock, but at least the numbness clears your head a little. Sam's face, his words, finally come into focus and he's crooning _just fine_ and _don't you worry_ and other such platitudes and frankly, you're a little offended by how very cliché it is. _Cut it out, Moose,_ you choke out around the blood in your mouth, _don't wanna spend my last moments being bloody lied to._

Four years. That's all you got, a measly four years. Well, there were centuries before that of course, but you started counting over again, didn’t you? You try to find it in you to be mad, to feel robbed, but you've always known this time spent human, this time spent with Sam, was a grace you've never been worthy of. And when he smiles weak and watery at you, half chuckles and says _shut it, you prick,_ your heart can only make room for fondness and love and perhaps a bit of regret, but the anger doesn't come.

You've never been one for grand declarations, neither of you have, but you realize this is probably the one and only time a man can be forgiven for such a transgression and you mean to take advantage of that fact. It spills out of you easier than you would have anticipated, words like _love_ and _appreciate_ , _thank you_ and _promise me_ , _never_ and _forever_. He listens and nods, cups the side of your face and answers in turn, promises only ever whispered into dewy skin in darkened rooms. _Sorry_ he finishes, as if he's ever done a thing to you that would require an apology.

He's hauled you up into his arms at some point, your head rests against his massive chest and he's rocking slightly, you consider it both a blessing and a bad sign that you felt no pain with the movement. Your hand's no longer pressed against the gash in your stomach, why bother, and you manage to clutch onto the sleeve of his shirt, like holding on hard enough will somehow keep him with you when you go. You lift your eyes to his face, the angle awkward but you can't look away. _Don't. Know if I'll. Get to see you again..._ you explain.

You'd talked about it once or twice, waxed philosophical about whether or not you'd been granted a brand new soul via the blood ritual, or if you're still carrying around your old one, blackened and irredeemable. Sam once offered to ask the angel to check, if you wanted, but you didn’t have the guts to find out. He himself never voiced an opinion one way or another, but you’ve overheard him practice the holy souls rosary more than once.

When he tries to smile down at you he sobs instead, a tear trickles down his nose and drops onto your forehead and you feel yourself smile at the sensation. _Like a baptism_ , you think, and it's the last conscious thought you have before the darkness takes you.


End file.
